


And I wonder, how can you take it?

by magicalcookie664



Series: Vent stuff or something [6]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders Needs a Hug, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Past Relationship(s), Sad, Self-Harm, vent - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 09:14:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29487342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicalcookie664/pseuds/magicalcookie664
Summary: He’s trying so hard.
Relationships: Anxiety | Virgil Sanders & Morality | Patton Sanders
Series: Vent stuff or something [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1773316
Comments: 1
Kudos: 15





	And I wonder, how can you take it?

**Author's Note:**

> TW in the tags 
> 
> I haven’t posted on here in 6 months but here’s me projecting onto Virgil again.
> 
> Don’t fucking read this trash.

When Virgil disappears upstairs after dinner, he finds himself collapsing onto his bed still wearing his clothes, a breathy sigh escaping his lips. He's tired. He rolls over, the side of his face pressing into his cold pillow. He wants to sleep, though wanting to sleep doesn't mean he'll be able to.

He takes his phone out, squinting at the too bright screen assaulting his eyes. He catches a glimpse of his phone background: Patton. Virgil stares at the image, locks eyes with the still frame of the smiling person. He looks so happy. Virgil just stares at his phone until it turns itself off and he realises what he's doing. 

He closes his eyes, feeling the weight of the phone clutched in his hand. He thinks about getting up, going back downstairs to see the others. A strange sensation curls within him. He feels dead. No one should see him like this. 

He keeps breathing in and out, slowly, his chest rising and falling, skin pressing up against the fabric of his shirt. It's an odd feeling. He wishes he could stop being so aware of it. He hates being so painfully aware of his own existence. Existence as a whole is such a fleeting little thing, he thinks, pressing his eyes closed even tighter than before. It's something he constantly finds himself thinking over and over again. 

Because there's no point to it, is there?Every single person dies. He feels like he's the only one who realises this. The others seem so detached from his reality. Perhaps it is just that: his reality. Grow up, Virgil. 

He slides his fingers over his wrist, feeling the soft skin. The constant pulse below his fingers reminds him of the blood pumping through his veins, the life caught behind such flimsy layers of skin. He opens his eyes to look at it. Faded white lines trace circles like bracelets around his wrist. They look older than they are. 

There is no point in trying to explain the desire to hurt himself to someone who has never felt such desire themselves. It's futile, for it is something they cannot comprehend doing. Why would they? Causing physical harm to yourself is not what anyone should want to do, right? It's not normal, no matter what the subreddits and the obscure tumblr blogs Virgil frequents say otherwise. 

His grip on his wrist tightens, his fingernails biting into the skin. No, he cannot tell anyone. What would he say? He can almost picture the look on Patton's face when Virgil tells him of his strong desire to slice himself to pieces, tear himself to bits. He can't do it. The others don't need to know. 

He feels himself shaking, frustration causing tears to burn in his eyes. His nails dig deeper and deeper. He feels overcome with the want - need - to scratch at himself, tear the skin from his face, rip it off, get it off - now. 

He's trying so hard. 

He can't -

His hands fly to his head, shaking, always shaking. He digs his nails into his skull until the small wounds spike with pain, yanks at his hair, tips forward, clumps of it captured by his tightly held fists. 

He can't. 

He's so angry. His head won't shut up no matter what he does. It just keeps going and going, thought after thought after thought and god- his heartbeat is in his ears. He claws at his chest, crying silently, mouth stretched wide in a silent sob. He scratches at his arms. He doesn't care. It's not cutting, it doesn't count, he tries to reason. 

Disgusting, his mind supplies, pathetic waste.

It's all a waste. All of it. His life, his breath, his thoughts, everything he does. It means nothing. 

He curls into a ball, wrapping his trembling arms around himself, a makeshift hug. He wants Patton to hug him but he's messed that up. He wants Patton to hug him, Patton with his warm smiles and beautiful eyes. Patton with his freckled cheeks and laugh that makes Virgil want to kiss him. 

Now it just makes him cry, but everything does that, so it's just another thing on the long list. 

He should've said more at dinner, should've tried to make conversation. It wouldn't have worked, he tells himself, you ruin everything. He wishes things weren't so awkward between him and Patton now, wishes he could just have a normal conversation without blowing up in anger. 

He doesn't hate Patton. He hates himself. He hugs himself tighter, holding his thin body in his own arms. If he closes his eyes three quarters of the way the world becomes a tear-blurred haze trimmed with black. In that world Patton lies beside him, arms securing him close, warm breath on his face, fingertips drying his tears, the ghost of a kiss lingering on his lips. Virgil cries harder, a few pained noises escaping him, whimpers not quite muffled by his pillow. 

He longs for the respite numbness offers. He begs for the calming waves of sleep to coat him in their dreamless touch. He hugs himself with stinging arms and sobs into the silence, barely making a sound. 

He thinks of Patton, of his own friends, of Thomas, of every other fucking human in existence. 

How can they take it?

Virgil can't.


End file.
